I really miss you
by Somepatriot
Summary: "When that family member, your own brother, your kin, decides to look you in the eyes as he cuts himself out of your chest,  That is true heartbreak." USUK progression of their relationship after the revolution. Based off a you tube video. T for language.
1. Heartbreak

Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia. (I know, shocking)

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><p>It wouldn't be so bad if he never said anything. If he just left everything as<p>

it was. But he had to.

"America," he had said. "Let me give you one last piece of advice. Stay

isolated. Don't get involved with other countries. Work on your government. That

way, you won't ever get hurt."

To late.

He hurt me. He ripped my heart out just by looking at me. Although he didn't

choose to physically shoot me, he did a damn good job with his words.

Next time, just stab me through the chest, okay?

I don't regret what I did. Of course not. Heroes never regret anything. And... I

don't miss him at all.

No, not at all!

Sure, sometimes, I can picture him coming around corners, going through doors,

like nothing happened. But...

That means nothing! I don't miss him!

If fact, I'm happy he's gone. Now there's no one to tell me to get up early, or

stop slouching, or speak properly. No one nags me for not combing my hair, I can

choose to not wash the dishes. I can stay up late. No one wipes my face or

messes with my clothes or pinches my cheeks and tells me they love me.

And...it's awesome...

Because England is gone. And... I'm happy...

**OoOoOoO**

**OoOoOoO**

I knew this day was coming. I knew it. I never should have allowed a colony so

much freedom. It was stupid, careless. And look where it's gotten me.

I don't think I can stand much more of this. Some weekends, when there's not

much work, I think: "I'll have time to visit America!" but then I remember...

Life isn't like that anymore. And while that bloke revels in happiness at his

newfound freedom, I sit at a bar, alone.

As usual.

It'd be a terrible lie, saying I don't miss the lad. He was my little brother,

and he stabbed me in the back.

I regret everything. If maybe I had just talked to him, made him understand...

No. That boy is as stubborn as an ass. Once he makes up his mind, there's no

changing it. Like how he refuses to stop calling biscuits, cookies! It was cute

when he was little, but it started to get annoying. "cookie" doesn't even sound

like a word!

That stupid, daft, idiot. He was all I really had.

Sure, I had other colonies. But they don't mean much to me. They are valuable

resources, and they never had the freedom America did. I have learned my lesson.

Never again.

Because I really miss him.

**OoOoOoO**

**OoOoOoO**

America slouched on a couch, his feet on the coffee table (because it's not a tea table).

His hair was matted, his shirt un-tucked. He was a right mess, in other words. But he only looked the way he did because he was still…rebelling.

Forever rebelling.

He wouldn't even talk to his twin, Canada. (Though he rarely ever did).

Canada was still England's colony. England's property.

Day's were lonely and slow. Night were restless and short. He could barely eat anything (by his standards, that is). All he did was work. He had a garden that was as tightly kept as…

as…

As the British army…

_AUGH! Why won't he stay out of my head? I don't miss him! I'm happy without him! _Alfred thought.

He heard they finished the constitution yesterday. His whole country rejoiced. The final cord was cut.

He was alone…

For the first time in his life.

And that brings us to England. He was a powerful thing at that time, a mighty force to be feared. But he was also a meek human being, who had a broken heart.

When most people's hearts are broken, it is by a lover. But little people have there love ripped from them by a brother.

You see, lovers build their own heart next to your original one. Slowly, slowly, you inch forward and fall in love. So if they were to suddenly take that away from you, you would still have your heart.

You might be crippled for a time, but only a time. Because you are still whole.

But family does not do this. Family resides in your original heart. They are always kept there, tucked away, where no one else can interfere.

Many people can suffer from this kind of heartbreak, like when a loved one dies.

But they never truly leave your heart, it is simply your foolishness that hides them away from you.

No, these heartbreaks can barely be called "break". They are nothing compared to what is truly broken.

Crushed.

Vanquished

Defeated.

When that family member, your own brother, your kin, decides to look you in the eyes as he cuts himself out of your chest,

_That_ is true heartbreak.

They might be able to be put back, but it would be messy and it would never fit _just right _once again.

Because they crippled you. Unlike the other "heartbreaks" this one leaves you truly missing something. It really is gone.

And if that "portion" of your heart that that one person resided in, was your entire heart, you would surely never love again.

Because, honestly, who can love without a heart?

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><p>Not my usual hilarity... But I do like the way this was written. I dare say I'm proud.<p>

But I would still love to read critiques! If you didn't already know, this was based off a you tube video called "I really miss you" by Itzmiracle.

Thanks for reading!

Sorry for any mistakes, I'm American!

-Mallory


	2. What isn't there

Hetalia I do not own. For if I did pigs would've flown.

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><p>Most people say that all things heal in time.<p>

Those people are wrong.

It had been 66 long years. America was almost a completely different person. The gold rush had just started up in the west, he had a few friends in Europe, hell, he had even struck a deal with Mexico. But there was a little reminder, digging at the back of his neck, constantly there. Never fading.

England.

His big brother, his best friend. All he asked was for that stupid old man to forgive and forget. Not that America had ever tried apologizing.

Because, apologizing isn't just a few words and a shamed face. Apologizing is

something of time travel, if you will. It can affect the future, either for the better or for the worse. Because apologizing, if done properly, (though it rarely ever is) can blot out the past. Sure, it'll still be there, that faint distant memory, but new, lovely and good ones will be so much brighter, it's hard to see that blurry little thing that happened oh-so-long ago.

But, America, being the proud, free nation he was, could never notch down his arrogance enough to say sorry. He was never too great with words in the first place, let alone emotions. Instead, he blocked everything out.

England? Bah! Who needs England when you have piles of gold just awaiting you, vast, ever-expanding prairies simply brimming with potential. He was a strong, rich nation, to say the least. And he was only sixty-six years old.

**OoOoOoOoOo**

**OoOoOoOoOo**

England stared at the pocket watch in his hand. Sixty six years ago, America had been his colony.

Since then, much had happened. He gained India as a colony. Though she would never replace America.

Because India was so different, and England daren't give her too much freedom. What if she were to try and escape too? No, it was best the nation be kept on a

short leash. She was a valuable land, what with all those spices and other resources. Pirates occasionally plundered along the trade route, but it was nothing the British navy couldn't handle.

Yes, it would never happen again, that heartbreak.

Because you can't break what isn't there.

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><p>Very short, I know. But I wanted to update. So this is the product.<p>

This isn't my usual hilarity, so I apologize for the angst...

"To be or not to be! That is not really a question..."

Sorry for any mistakes, I'm American!

-Mallory


	3. Forgive and Forget

Disclaimer: Hetalia I do not own. For if I did you would have known.

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><p><em>In order to fall, you must first take a step.<em>

England sat in a pub…again. It was getting old, wars. Always constant fighting…

Again. And again. And again.

This time was strangely different, it seemed as though everyone wanted to join in on the fun. People were starting to call it a "World War."

The battles had just begun, the outcome still in a cloud of mystery. In fact, it seemed as though everyone was just stretching. Sure, there had been air raids, and captures, and massacres.

But all is fair in love and war, right?

England wasn't too sure anymore. What was "fair" anyways? Is it that everyone gets the same thing?

Or that everyone gets what they need? Who is to determine their needs? What of their wants?

No. The word "fair" is to general.

Somewhere in the distance, sirens wailed through England's thoughts.

Air raid.

Again.

**OoOoOoO**

**OoOoOoO**

America was getting nervous.

Well, not nervous. Hero's never panic. Never.

But he was still a young nation. He didn't like wars. Killing. Fighting.

No, he liked saving. And laughing.

Sure, he hadn't done that in a while, but he was still the unalienable nation, right?

No one can touch him.

But still, the cloud keeps pressing closer. Cries from other countries, they wanted help. They _needed _help. Protection. Assistance.

Whatever word the letter used, they all meant the same thing. The needed a hero.

But still, America sat back and waited, waited until he saw it.

On a crisp, very official document, was something that pushed him into the light of the knowing. It pulled him out of his ignorant pit of safety, and led him into the cold, harsh, exposed lands of war.

A proposal for temporary ally-ship. From England.

And then he knew, things must have been bad. Sure, it'd be nice to go into the war and save people, but it seemed like the bad outweighed the good.

But England…

Somehow, he tipped the scale. America joined the war, more than a few months late.

And thus, the name "World War" really came into play.

**OoOoOoO**

**OoOoOoO**

Tension.

ten·sion [ténshən]

(plural ten·sions)

noun

1. anxious feelings: mental worry or emotional strain that makes natural relaxed behavior impossible

The word hardly described every meeting, every random passing, intense battle and shared war headquarters of England and America.

There was never an apology, or a smirk, or even any unnecessary shared words. When there was a combined victory, it was a slight nod of the head that showed what little thanks the two held for each other. Not the whooping, jumping, and laughing that true brothers of war partake in.

Never again.

Brother.

Much like fog tends to thicken before a storm, the tension did too.

One night America just couldn't stand it anymore. Rising from his cot and crossing the tent, he leaned down to shake the Brit awake.

Only to find he didn't have to.

The blonde man was already up and staring out at the darkness with a dead expression, his eyes glazing past Alfred, like he was some sort of memory he could try to erase.

And perhaps he was.

But the American steeled his war-torn nerves and spoke to the man who was his brother for the first time in uncountable years.

"England." His voice cracked like his throat was dry, which it was. "Can we forget everything? Please? It's tearing me apart."

The Englishman slowly sat up, the stiff sheets sounding like an avalanche in the dead of the night. "Forget." The man repeated. "Forget. I don't think I can forget. You ripped my heart out, and I can't forget what I lost."

"England, I-"

"Go back to bed, America. Times of war need nights of sleep."

**OoOoOoO**

**OoOoOoO**

Forgiveness

for·give·ness [fər gívnəss]

noun

1. act of pardoning somebody: the act of pardoning somebody for a mistake or wrongdoing.

.

.

.

.

How many times can one fall before they stop walking?

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><p>If everyone's a critic, then no one reads this. Critique is greatly loved!<p>

Thank-you all for reading, faving, alerting and checking out my other stories. It means a lot to me!

I'm sorry for any grammar/Spelling mistakes. MY BETA IS LAZY. (Yeah, that's right, Dara. I'm talking to you.)

Thanks again!

-Mallory

**Dear waytomuchadoaboutnothing,**

**turn on your PM.**

**love,**

**Mallory**


	4. The Fighter and the Hero

Disclaimer: If I owned Hetalia, world war three would have long erupted.

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><p>Courage is a hard thing to come by. And by courage, I mean pure acts of bravery, things not prompted by anything else. Because what most people think is brave, could've really just been stupid, or lucky.<p>

Some people do things out of spite and hatred, making them appear brave. Others do things out of love or compassion.

And still, people go on label such acts as "valiant".

But someone who is truly bold, needs no encouragement . They do things simply because they feel the need to. Their moral compass does not work like the rest of us.

While our needle spins around us, a truly brave person's needle would fly towards the thing. It has no restraints. Petty things like forethought and selfishness.

Yes, that is a true hero.

**0o0o0o**

**o0o0o0**

America dashed around the battle field, scooping up the injured. Many think he's crazy for trying such things, but he had to do it. Somehow carrying three people with him, he ran to the medic tent.

Through the thin fabric came the screams of the damned and dying. To most, that is all they hear.

But America could hear the faint whispers of thanks and hope, the beautiful words that produced beautiful light in what surely must be a pit of darkness.

Two nurses stood outside, waiting for him. He laid each person down on a stretcher, and just before the nurses were about to turn into the tent, one of them turned, pecked America on the cheek and whispered: "It's a wonderful thing, you're doing."

And though America did not need the encouragement, those simple words spurred him on the rest of the day, as still more people fell wounded.

**0o0o0o**

**o0o0o0**

England had always been a good fighter. Whether he be the soldier or the pirate, it didn't matter. He could be the upstart of a mob, or the policeman that stops him. That is the true mark of a good fighter, no moral compass. Someone dare point their gun at me? Then die he shall.

Bombs and death surrounded him, but he didn't care. He was England. The man without a heart.

Try and strike me down! I'll never fall! I've already died once, I can't die again!

**0o0o0o**

**0o0o0o**

Before either country knew it, the war was over. Not that it went by fast. No, quite the contrary. It was slow and painful. But all the same, it was over, and the two countries were lucky enough to be on the winning side. There were parties, thrown by different countries. All who were on the winning side were invited.

And all who were well enough to go, went.

Long nights of drinking and dancing blurred the memories of death and war long enough for the countries to bask in their victory.

"England!" One drunken night America called out, and through the haze of alcohol received a reply.

"Huh? Git, what?'

"Sorry!"

"Huh? Git!"

Though neither country could say that America had meant what he said, it was a start. The start of an end. The closure.

If America, intoxicated or otherwise, was able to admit wrongdoing of some sort, it was enough to seal the wound that had been bleeding far to long.

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><p>I don't have much to say, except thanks for the support! And since you've all been so kind as to review, I'll update again tonight! It's only nine thirty, better start typing!<p> 


	5. Rose Garden

__Disclaimer:  
>Yeah, don't own.<p>

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><p><em>War is not the answer. The question is war. The answer is yes.<em>

.

Just when the nations got back into the rhythm of peace, yet another war broke out. And this one was beyond all wars.

"World War Two…" England said, clutching the paper. "And just when I thought we had learned something…"

Shaking his head and chuckling dryly, he threw the newspaper in the fireplace, watching the headline blacken and burn to ash.

"Germany Declares War!"

**0o0o0o**

**0o0o0o**

America felt like screaming. Again? Another war? There was no way he was going to part of it this time! No matter how many cries for help came, he just couldn't force himself to kill again. To be killed.

Or, at least, that's what he had thought. And then Japan bombed Hawaii. Why? He didn't know. All he knew is that he did, and America was not going to take it.

He'll fight back, full force.

**0o0o0o**

**0o0o0o**

And so, England and America found themselves, once again, allies.

Secretly terrified, but outwardly strong, they marched into battle. You'd think by now their relationship would be better, would you not? But alas, the two stubborn nations refused to give in. Telling themselves that the past is nothing but the past, the now is war. And war is fighting, killing, dying.

**0o0o0o**

**0o0o0o**

America watched England from across the tent. He was clearly asleep. His breaths were long and even and he was softly whispering nonsense.

It had been a while, since America had seen England with any expression other than one of blood-lust or scowling. Although he would much rather see England smile, peace was just as fulfilling. He would never tell the island nation this, of course. But he could watch, in ever silence.

Always silence.

The war was cold and bloody. It seemed ever lasting. Both nations impressed each other. America used bombs and brute, whereas England used cunning and forethought. Either way, they won the war, and respect. Though neither knew about the latter.

Parties were held, once again. The two nations struggled for conversation, falling to small talk instead.

"Nice weather lately."

"Hm? Oh, yes. Indeed."

**0o0o0o**

**0o0o0o**

America was starving, and scared, and alone. He was out of money, he was depressed. Seeing all exits blocked, he decided to turn around and go back. Back on the forbidden road, one of struggle and dangers.

With extreme caution, America traced his steps back to the very beginning. England.

When he reached the somewhat familiar house, he almost chickened out. But he steeled his nerves and continued on, ringing the door bell with what could only be described as desperation. He expected to be turned away, or maybe thrown away. What he didn't expect was a polite voice ringing out. "I'm in the back!"

Fear and fatigue made America's feet feel like led as he traveled around the house, through a black gate and into a beautiful rose garden. England stood in the middle of the bushes, wearing some old jeans and a white t-shirt. His hands were smeared with dirt, as if he had just been tending to the plants.

But America's weary eyes traveled upwards, to his old caretaker's face. A face that held complete surprise. There was no hostility, just…shock.

America wandered closer, very slowly. He felt like crying and laughing all at once. He fell at the feet of England, possibly accomplishing the previously mentioned act.

"A-a-america?" England asked, leaning away from the broken man at his feet.

"England…" America chocked out, looking up at the man. "I'm so sorry…"

Kneeling down, England brought himself face-to-face with his old colony. "America, what brought this on?"

"I'm tired! I'm tired of it all! I'm starving, I'm broken, and I just can't take this loneliness anymore!"

England didn't really know what to say. He had been in this position many times before, though he had never had the courage to do anything about it.

America suddenly looked up, blue eyes locked with green, and all the words either nation had ever wanted to say were said. Through one look.

America grasped the Briton's cheeks, and pressing his face into the man's chest, he sobbed.

Relief

re·lief [ri l f]

(plural re·liefs)

n

1. freeing of somebody from anxiety: a release from anxiety or tension, or the feeling of release, lightness, and cheerfulness that accompanies this

2. factor that ends anxiety: a factor that ends a painful or stressful experience such as pain, hunger, or boredom

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><p>Whooo! I wrote this in thirty minutes! So, obviously, it probably has mistakes. I wanted to challenge myself to do this; I wrote two chapters in an hour.<p>

PLEASE tell me if they're terrible, I really just wanted to push my limits, you know?

Thanks all of you who review! You inspire me to try these crazy things!

-Mallory


	6. Rejection

Disclaimer: *Ahem* this is _fan_fiction. That means I'm a FAN. Not the owner, and not the motorized machine.

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><p>After some persuasion, England managed to drag America into his house. He set a kettle on the stove, trying to think about….well, everything. He wasn't exactly sure of his emotions at the moment, I mean, America had ripped his heart out. And all this time, he had thought the former colony had no regrets. But after seeing him basically crying his eyes out…he wasn't sure anymore.<p>

He wasn't sure what to do. He was hurt and betrayed, and he didn't know why. Why did his brother leave him? Rip his heart out with such glory?

How could he be so sad now, if then he was so happy?

England took the tea back to the room where America lay, still unsure.

"Why?" He asked.

America looked up, his eyes red-rimmed and puffy. "Because I couldn't stand the way you loved me."

"What?" England asked, feeling the familiar rage bubble up. Because America didn't love him? Is that it?

"I didn't realize it until recently…" America said, staring at the ceiling. "But after years of being alone. Afraid. I came to understand my feelings from way back when…"

"So you didn't love me?" England yelled. "You never loved me? You don't love me now! Then why did you come here? To rip out my heart a second time?"

"No!" America cried, sitting up. "No! Not like that, England. Not like that at all…"

America got up so he could put his hands on the Englishman's shoulders. Stooping down so as to look him in the eyes, America whispered. "I couldn't stand you loving me like a brother, because I loved you more than that."

"Wh-what?"

"At the time, I just thought it was because you treated me like a baby. But I really just wanted to be equal. So that I could love you…"

England shook the hands off his shoulders. "You…"

"I love you, England."

There is a Greek god. The god Eris, or chaos. Even this god could not contain the turmoil which was currently in Arthur's head. Emotions and past mingled, the present jumped over eligible thoughts, and the future ran about as it chased down memories. Things were jumbled and amiss, it was truly chaotic.

But Arthur could not love. Not again. Love is hopeless.

No, there was no way he could ever love again, he had no heart!

_Thump. Thump. Thump._

No! His ears must be hearing wrong! He didn't have a heart!

Then what was beating so loudly in his chest?

"England?" America asked, pulling back a bit.

What was that ache in his chest, that increased as America backed away?

"England, do you love me?"

No! Love is terrible! Cruel! Nonexistent!

"No."

America stared at the man he loved. No. He said no.

This wasn't right! This wasn't right at all! There must be some error, so miscalculation in fate…

Where was the kiss? The love? The happily ever after that movies so proudly portrayed?

"I-I can't." England said, with fear in his eyes. He backed away from America, like he was deadly. "No! No! I can't love you!" He turned, running upstairs.

And America didn't follow.

He didn't chase after him, call his name, insist that love conquers all.

Because this wasn't a movie. This was real life. And England didn't love him…

He can't love him.

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><p>Yeah. Sorry. I'm not one for cliche's. I hate the "and then they kissed, made up, had a happily ever after and ran off into the sunlight together."<p>

Nope. Not this gal. You're just going to have to stick around for the next few chapters! Poor Iggy just can't let go yet...

Anyways, reviews are greeatly appreciated! Thanks so much for all the ones I've already gotten!

-Mallory


	7. The Experts

America lay sprawled over his couch, completely defeated. He wasn't ever going to get up…never again.

He didn't even get up for the doorbell that rang so many times, or when the door opened. Even when his brother was standing over him, telling him to get up now, he didn't move an inch. He just stared at the ceiling fan, watching the blades…

They seemed so slow these days…

"America! You have to get up! You haven't eaten in two days! I'm really starting to get scared!"

America closed his eyes. He didn't feel like talking…

"Please, America. At least come with me to get some hamburgers!" Canada cried.

"M'not in the mood…" America muttered, swatting with his arm before letting it fall back down to his side.

_America was not in the mood for hamburgers…_

_The end is near._

France picked up his phone that had been so rudely interrupting his por- I mean educational program.

"Oui? Bonjour. Je m'appelle Français…" (Yes? Hello. My name is France.)

"Salut papa!" Canada said, frantic. (Hi dad!) "Listen, I'm starting to get really scared! America hasn't eaten for two days!"

"Mon dieu! Two days? You must be joking, non?"

"Non! Non Papa! Today I asked him if he wanted to get Hamburgers and he turned me down!"

"What? That's impossible!"

"Papa, we have to do something!"

France paused, thinking. "Calm down, ma petite, I think I have an idea…"

OoOoOoO

And so with much trouble, France rounded up a team and set to work. After two minutes of introducing Canada to the others, they split up into two teams.

"Okay" France said. "Team A is Canada and Prussia. You two get Alfred up and eating. Cheer him up. Team B, that's me and Spain, we'll swoop in after and talk him out of everything. Ready? Go!"

OoOoOoO

Canada and Prussia had tried everything. From forcibly stuffing McDonalds down America's throat to threatening to kill him.

Absolutely nothing worked.

The two Nations sat in defeat on the floor of America's living room, while the depressed nation himself drowned in his own self-pity.

But then, Prussia was hit with an epiphany. "Beer!" He cried, jumping to his feet.

"What?" Canada asked, lolling his head to look at the albino. "Beer! Let's get him drunk!"

Canada looked from Prussia, to his brother, and back again. "I don't know, Prussia, he's not even physically old enough…"

"He is in my country!"

"YOUR COUNTRY DOESN'T EXIST ANYMORE."

"Hey! No need to rub it in! Now you stay here, I'll go buy some beer…"

Thirty minutes later, Prussia came back, cursing and thoroughly pissed. "I can't believe this!" He yelled, slamming some six packs on the counter.

"What?" Canada asked, rushing over.

"There's absolutely NO good beer here! This country sucks! All I could find was bud light and blue moon!"

"Prussia, this is America. Not Germany."

Prussia sighed angrily, pulling out two beers and downing them as if it were nothing. "Disgusting…" He whispered, wiping his lips.

After Canada profusely apologized for the lack of 'good beer' in America, (as if it was his fault) he managed to get Prussia to hold America's mouth open.

Canada poured in three beers, getting no resistance from his brother.

And then they waited. After an hour, America was talking to them. Hour and a half, and another beer (or two…or three) he was happy to tell the two nations everything.

"What's got you so sad?" Canada asked.

"Oh, bro…" America moaned. "Where do I start? Well, first, I'm damn tired of all these wars." America paused to slouch against the couch. "And then frickin' England and his frickin' eyes…"

"What about his eyes?" Canada prodded.

"And his frickin' eyebrows and that damn face he makes when he's angry…and he won't freakin' talk to me! And it drove me insane! 'cause I was so damn tired of being lonely…and England… he…"

America clutched his brother's shoulders. "CAN'T LOVE ME!"

At that exact moment, France and Spain entered the house. They both looked at each other. The country of passion and the nation of love were experts on this. They immediately swooped into action, Spain got the tissues, and France sat beside America, patting his back. "America!" He said. "I'm sure the she will rethink this…"

France looked over at Canada, who was frozen on the ground. Prussia was laughing his ass off, swigging his beer.

"She?" America repeated.

"Ohonhon!~ Oh, is it he? I didn't know you rolled that way, America! If I did I surely would have-"

"France!" Spain cut him off, sitting on the other side of America. "Tell us about this guy, America."

"Well you guys know him!" America exclaimed, swaying to the side.

"We do?" France said, thinking. "Who is it?"

"England!" America yelled, as if it was completely obvious.

Prussia, who had just managed to control himself, burst out into renewed laughter. Canada just numbly felt for a beer and took a healthy gulp.

"That black sheep of York?" France said, leaning away from America as if he was contagious.

"Aw!" Spain said. "How cute!"

"He can't love me… he told me himself that he didn't love me…"

Spain and France shared a look with each other. "That." France said. "Is but a matter of time."

* * *

><p>Hazah! Finally some new characters! I hope this was okay, I don't often write for the bad touch trio. But recently, I've become a little fangirl...<p>

Anyways, some critique would be awesome! And any suggestions are appreciated too!

Sorry for any mistakes, I'm American!


	8. A dark room

England was having a bad day. Hell, he'd been having a bad day for the past week. But the one thing that was capable of making his day worse went and showed up.

France.

"Bloody frog! Go the hell away! I am not in the mood today-" England was cut off by the Frenchman's hand.

"Angleterre, I know about America."

And then England ran. He pushed past the Frenchman, and almost made it to the street. But his arm was caught. And then he was in a full body lock.

No! He had to get away, he had to leave. He couldn't face this, it hurt his nonexistent heart!

But Spain and Prussia dragged him back into his house. They pushed him onto a couch and barred his exit.

No. No no no!

"Angleterre, you need to face reality."

"Frog! I don't know what you're talking about."

"Mi amigo, you don't understand. You have to stop hiding."

"Shut up! You don't know me! I'm the bloody United Kingdom and I do not hide!"

England was a brave person. In war, he could rush straight into the face of the enemy and not even blink. He could stand on the edge of a cliff, sail dangerous seas. But he could not face love. Because love was far more painful than a knife through the chest.

"Prussia." France said. "Get the stuff."

"What stuff? Talk you bloody frog! I swear I'll kill you!"

But Prussia pressed a cloth to his face, and England passed out.

OoOoOoO

Two nations woke in a dark room with a massive headache. One was from a hangover, and the other was from chloroform.

"Oh god, I swear I'm never going to drink again…"

"Ha, I've said that my whole life." England said to the stranger.

"Hello? Who's there?" Was it America's imagination, or was that a British accent?

"Oh no…" England whispered. It was America. Bloody America.

Where was the door? A window? Oh god, he had to get out of here! England stood up quickly, but apparently his head wasn't ready for that yet. He crashed to the floor with a loud 'thump'.

"Hello? Are you okay?" America asked, and England could hear shuffling towards him.

He couldn't handle this. His chest ached so much…

"Is it you, England?"

No! No! My name is Dave! I don't know what you're talking about!

"Yes, it's me…"

The shuffling stopped. "I'm sorry."

England sat up slowly. "Sorry for what?"

"I'm sorry for declaring independence. I'm sorry for being a coward. I'm sorry I couldn't be your hero. I'm sorry for never saying sorry."

England couldn't say anything.

Denial is a heavy burden, you see. After so much hurt, you start to forget how to heal. And England's life had always been full of hurt. But here was America, offering to bandage all those wounds. But then again, some wounds would never heal.

His heart.

When that family member, your own brother, your kin, decides to look you in the eyes as he cuts himself out of your chest,

_That_ is true heartbreak.

They might be able to be put back, but it would be messy and it would never fit _just right _once again.

Because they crippled you. Unlike the other "heartbreaks" this one leaves you truly missing something. It really is gone.

"America, I just can't love you…"

America backed away. How come the words that played through his mind constantly hurt so much when said aloud again? "Why?"

"Because you took my heart, I can't love."

"I'll give it back!"

"I don't want it, it's a useless thing. Love is stupid."

"Don't say that! Love is…okay, love hurts. It sometimes takes more than anything else. But it's just _love_ England. We can't help but fall in it!"

"How can you say that after everything?"

Love is indescribable to those who deny it. We have all felt heartbreak.

But one cannot classify love with the end of love. Love is during, the beautiful roller coaster ride that makes you smile and scream and throw your arms up in pure ecstasy. But heartbreak is the end, when the bar rises, bumping your chin on the way up. And as you exit the ride, turn your back on it, you feel dizzy and hollow.

But you still head towards the next ride.

"England, just give me a chance. Please."

"I gave you a chance! But you went and declared your independence!"

"Give me a second chance."

A second chance. What is the meaning of a second chance? Doesn't history always repeat itself? England has seen plenty evidence of that. But to be released from this eternal aching…

But why would he even consider this? Because if he was considering this, then he would have to love…

Oh no.

* * *

><p>Yay for rushed short updates! I'm on vacation, so sorry. I didn't edit this, so...<p>

Anyways, critique is loved! Reviews keep me writing.

Thanks so much for all the favs/reviews/alerts!

-Mallory


	9. Hearts have other Uses

It had been far too long. Much like a flower wilts if not tended to, so does a heart.

Hearts are often associated with love. But there are many other uses for this organ, uses which we often ignore.

Have you ever hurt you toe, and then realized how much you use it? Well, the same thing happens when someone steals your heart. Because you always want what you can't have.

The heart provides many things, blood, compassion, feeling. Things you can never put a price under. Who would ever willingly give up their 'ticker'?

It keeps you going. Mentally, physically, and emotionally.

"A second chance…" England whispered.

Why? Why do people give out second chances so willingly? Because they feel nostalgic? Or maybe it's because they trick themselves into thinking people change.

But doesn't practice make perfect? Ugh, this was all too complicated.

Why can't love just be simple?

But…somehow, love is simple. Heartbreak is complicated, crushes are complicated. The sides to the main course. Things to cleanse your pallet, little trinkets spread across the great table of life.

But what silverware should you use? Why on earth were there so many forks? So many choices?

"What would you like to drink, sir?"

Drink? Another choice?

"Would you care for dessert this evening?"

It sounds wonderful, but I'm so full…but what if it were amazing? Would I be missing something?

"England…" America called. "Please…" He sounded broken.

No. The great Nation, the land of the free, home of the brave, this could not be! England could not be responsible for the defeat of the man that killed him long ago. "I-I…."

What happened to the smile? The one he would stare at from afar, filled with bitter feelings like rage. How could America smile like that with France?

Japan…

Italy…

Everyone…

And then he'll look at England, and his eyes will dull. The smile will droop slightly, as if he was holding up a heavy weight…

But he'll carry on, laugh a dry laugh, maybe pick a fight, and that will be that.

But there is never any feeling.

Feeling is for the living, for the blissfully unaware. The ones who do not know hurt like betrayal or betraying. The lucky beings that are able to look at themselves in the mirror and smile.

Not like England.

Not like America.

But for some strange reason, the ones who can barely glance at their shadow pull themselves toward the light, whether they be crawling, dying, crying. Because that light holds the promise of happiness, the happiness that no one can describe.

What makes joy better than sadness? How come we long for it?

Why?

"America…" England chocked. Why do we love? Smile? Laugh? Live.

"I'm so sorry…"

Love is simple. But when it gets mixed in with all those other ingredients of life, it becomes sticky and hard to get off. "O-okay…"

America looked into the darkness, where he could see nothing and everything all at once. "Yes? Yes? YOU'LL GIVE ME A CHANCE?"

And something in that elated tone made England's heart skip a beat—

Heart.

England's heart.

_I love you, America._

* * *

><p>YAY! Development! ENGLAND KNOWS IT, HOMEDOGS.<p>

He loves America.

CELEBRATION.

Here's a funny quote to lighten the mood:

"I used to be indecisive, but now I'm not so sure."

"A balanced diet is a cookie in each hand"

"We'll be friends until we're old and senile. Then we'll be NEW friends. :)"


	10. April the tenth

Life had carried on casually for the world after that, Spain and France received a beating, and they left, sobbing about how they were "just doing it for the better good!".

America and England struggled through a very awkward and incredibly _tense _relationship, but with some help (torture) from their good (bad) friends (enemies) they managed to struggle towards the light of a somewhat stable and trusting relationship.

"Please, Iggy?" America said, pouting as he leaned over his boyfriend on the couch.

"Absolutely not." The Englishman replied, stiffly drinking his tea.

"But Iggy!"

"Don't call me that."

"But Ig-"

"WHAT DID I JUST SAY?"

_Ding Dong._

The two blonde's startled at the foreign sound, _the doorbell? At this hour?_

Arthur got off the couch, leaving his tea, and answered the door. Maybe, just _maybe, _if it hadn't been raining and dark, he could have closed it in time.

But because this was England (the country—not the person, that is) He didn't see the telltale blonde locks, flashy coat, and perverted smirk.

"Mon Cher!" The Frenchman cried, stepping into the room before England could do a thing about it. Three others followed, trekking in mud and rain.

"Wow, the place in a mess." One mumbled.

"Dammit, France!" England shouted. "Get out! And take your 'bad flush Rio' too!"

"It's bad touch trio."

"Whichever!" England huffed. "What _precisely _compelled you to _intrude _into my home?"

"Mon cher!" Francis gasped, clutching at his heart. "Have you no idea what today is?"

"Wednesday."

"No! The date!"

"…It would be the tenth of April. Why…?"

"Well! At this exact day, this exact moment, and just last year, Spain, Prussia and I locked you in your own closet!"

England face-palmed and muttered "Oh god, not this."

But it was too late, a godly spotlight had already appeared above France, his arms were spread wide, and he began to retell a tale.

"It was a beautiful night, this tenth of April; one quite unlike the one we face now." France walked about the room, eyes twinkling with lust for the théâtre.

"In a room, a dark, old, dusty room, lay two men. Brought together by fate-"

"Or a Frenchman." England interrupted.

"They had met before, former loved ones. But now it was time to take a step into the unknown, in the dark-"

"Towards the door." England interjected again.

"They realized in that room that past was just that: past. That the now is what is most important…"

**-one hour later-**

"Pass the popcorn" America whispered, eyes still on the over-dramatic Frenchman before them. They had turned down the lights, so only the divine spotlight remained. They sat on the couches in the living room, while France preformed on the coffee table.

"-l'amour, the powerful thing was far too strong to resist. Despite their fight about cowboys and pirates"

"Hey." Gilbert whispered. "Who won that fight?"

"Shh!" Antonio shushed, waving his hand. "No spoilers!"

"-with love for each other still in their eyes, and with that they exited the meeting, to discuss more important matters. It was the best of the-"

"Guys, I'm going to go to bed. I've already seen this one."

"M'kay." Gilbert mumbled, shoving some popcorn into his mouth. "Buenos noches!"

"I'll actually join you." Arthur said, standing up and brushing crumbs off his pants.

And so it came to be that the two blondes spent the night spooning and sleeping, and the bad touch trio found themselves laughing and crying with the journey of two men through their love for each other.

And Canada was there too, but no one noticed.

* * *

><p>And that short and incredibly rushed chapter concludes this story!<p>

I wrote this chapter four million times. I eventually settled for this. I hope it doesn't dissapiont all that much. BUT C'EST LA VIE.

Tata!

-Mallory


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